


Cock Robbin'

by bluesailor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Dean Hates Witches, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesailor/pseuds/bluesailor
Summary: They almost don’t take the case at first, because Deanhateswitches, and this one pretty much screams witch. A string of corpses, all young men, all found in the woods after a new moon, and all, according to the coroner’s reports, with “genital aplasia.” Which is a fancy way of saying their cocks are missing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could say this was a kinkmeme fill, but no. This one's all me, folks.
> 
> Thanks (or perhaps blame) to my lovely beta-readers, Crosstown_Rapid and RiverSongTam. They deserve all the credit for being so awesome and supportive, and without them this fic would never have seen the light of day.

They almost don’t take the case at first, because Dean _hates_ witches, and this one pretty much screams witch. A string of corpses, all young men, all found in the woods after a new moon, and all, according to the coroner’s reports, with “genital aplasia.” Which is a fancy way of saying their cocks are missing. 

The whole thing kind of makes Dean want to hurl, but if there’s a witch stealing cocks, he considers it his duty—not just as a hunter, but as a man—to stop her. So he clenches his jaw and turns the Impala towards Ipswich, Massachusetts. 

“Fucking witches,” he complains darkly to Sam. “The fuck are they stealing cocks for, anyway?” 

Sam slants a sideways grin at him from the passenger seat, and reaches over to trace a finger up the inseam of Dean’s jeans. 

“I can think of a few reasons,” he drawls, voice pitched low. 

“Gross,” Dean says, smacking him away before he can reach any higher. Normally he’d never turn down a highway hand job, but given the nature of this case he doesn’t think he can be blamed for feeling a little protective of his goods at the moment. “Fucking _witches_.” 

#

Their intel points them to a little shingled cottage at the edge of town, owned by one Chastity Williams. She fundraises for the local church, volunteers at a soup kitchen, and apparently in her spare time she magics away guys’ junk for God-only-knows what unspeakable purpose. If Dean were in a better mood, he'd appreciate the irony of her name. 

“You don’t think we might be rushing this a little?” Sam asks, standing watch while Dean crouches by the front door with the lockpicks. “You know, maybe we should stake out the house, interview some people? Make sure Chastity is _actually_ the witch before we ambush her?” 

“Oh, she’s the witch all right,” Dean mutters. “See those flowerbeds?” He tilts his head toward the perfectly trimmed garden surrounding the house.

“Uh, geraniums?” says Sam. 

“And hemlock and nightshade.”

“I still think we should—”

The lock gives, and Dean stands up pushes the door open before Sam can finish speaking. That’s when the woman standing behind it shrieks out a few Latin words, unleashing a burst of bright purple spell-light that hits him right in the crotch. 

Dean braces himself, but the spell doesn’t seem to have any effect beyond momentarily blinding him. Blinking the afterimages out of his eyes, Dean takes a step forward, into the house, and in doing so notices two things simultaneously. 

First, there’s something distinctly lacking between his legs. 

Second, the witch—Chastity—is now holding what appears to be an extremely realistic dildo. It’s wiggling in her hand like some sort of live thing, and it’s also oddly familiar-looking….

He’s not really sure what happens after that, except that there’s a sudden explosion of pain in his head, and he’s falling, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. His last, impotent thought before the blackness takes him is that he doesn’t hate witches. 

He fucking _loathes_ them. 

#

Dean knows he’s in a motel before he even opens his eyes. He’s in a bed that smells of cheap industrial detergent, he can hear the rattling drone of an ice machine outside, and Sam is asleep next to him. A vague feeling of relief washes through him; it’s familiar, comforting, and it washes away the last anxious traces of the nightmare he was having. Dean lies still for a few more minutes, breathing deeply. Then he tries to sit up, and a sharp pulse of pain throbs through his skull, knocking him flat again.

“Fuck,” he groans. The pain seems to be concentrated in a white-hot epicenter right over his left temple. It pulses again as Sam stirs on the other side of the bed, jostling him.

“‘Bout time you woke up,” he says sleepily. “How you feeling?”

Dean doesn’t answer. The pain is making it a little difficult to think, but he’s definitely missing something here. And not just in the figurative sense.

“Oh god,” he says, feeling like he might pass out again. “Oh god, oh god.” 

“What is it?” says Sam. He leans over to peer into Dean’s eyes. “You need a hospital or something?” 

Dean plunges his hand down under the covers, groping over his crotch, and yeah, there’s _definitely_ something missing. He’s smooth as a newly-groomed ski slope. 

“It wasn’t a nightmare, was it?” he whispers. 

“Um,” says Sam. He presses his lips together, trying to hide a smile, but his dimples give it away. “Nope, sorry.” 

“Seriously?” Dean yelps, shoving Sam’s chest hard enough to send him tumbling back onto the mattress. “You let a fucking witch named fucking _Chastit_ y get away with my fucking—” 

“What was I supposed to do? She had you by the balls, man. _Literally._ ” 

“Oh _god._ ” Dean closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. “You know what this means, right?” he asks eventually, when he can speak without hyperventilating.

Sam rolls over him again, an avalanche of long limbs and warm skin. He rocks his hips, rubbing his morning wood along the inside of Dean's thigh, which Dean finds extremely inconsiderate, under the circumstances.

“I get to top for once?” 

“No,” says Dean, shoving him off again. “ _You’re_ not getting laid till I get my junk back.” 

#

Sam spends the rest of the day hunched at the motel room’s tiny breakfast table, clacking away on his laptop. Dean’s head pounds like a bass drum every time he tries to sit up, so he stays curled miserably in bed, vainly hoping that this is the part of the dream where he only _thinks_ he’s awake, and he’ll soon wake up for real and find that the whole thing was a nightmare after all.  

He jumps when Sam snickers suddenly. “What’s so funny?” he snaps.  

Sam rubs a hand over his face, grinning. “I think I know why Chastity was stealing cocks.” 

“Because a dildo can’t replace the real thing?” Dean asks dully.

“Well, yeah,” says Sam, “but not in the way you're thinking. I found some lore that says medieval witches used to keep male members as pets.” 

Dean stares at him for a moment, nonplussed. “Is that a euphemism?” 

“No,” says Sam, starting to chuckle again. “Literally, as pets. It says the witches would build nests for them and feed them oats and corn.” 

“So,” says Dean, “she's making my dick eat healthy?”

“According to the lore.”

Dean closes his eyes, horrified. “We gotta find it, Sam. Poor guy needs us.”

#

Another thing Dean hates about witches: They can pull a real vanishing act. 

#

Several days later, Dean comes back from a dinner run to find Sam sprawled on the pull-out couch, shirtless and freshly showered, watching some inane history documentary on the TV. 

“Slacking off?” Dean asks, tossing the takeout bag onto the table. 

Sam raises his eyebrows at the amount of grease staining the bag, but Dean ignores him. After all, it’s Sam’s fault that double cheeseburgers with extra onion are the closest he’s been able to come to sex for over a week. 

“It’s not slacking if there’s nothing else to do,” Sam says. “There’s no credit card trail, no cell phone GPS, not even a license plate.” 

“So, what, we just have to wait her out?” 

“Pretty much.” Sam stretches lazily, muscles shifting delicately under his skin. 

Dean huffs, plunks himself down at the table, and unwraps the burger, wishing Sam would put a shirt on. It’s been over a week, after all, and the sight of him makes Dean’s mouth water almost more than the food. 

“Regretting the sex strike yet?” Sam asks, smirking, and Dean realizes he’s been staring. He tears his eyes away, takes a big bite of the cheeseburger. 

“Not one bit,” he lies, chewing determinedly.

#

He chases the burger with a few beers, which turns out to be a mistake, because it leaves him mellow enough that he doesn’t pull away when Sam stops by his chair on his way out of the bathroom and kisses him. Dean opens for it like he’s starving, belly full of burger and beer notwithstanding, and he lets Sam settle across his lap, runs his hands up Sam’s back and into his hair. Sam makes a low, pleased noise and kisses harder, rocking forward so eagerly the chair almost capsizes beneath them, and Dean is having trouble remembering why they haven’t been doing this all week.

Then he tries to grind up against Sam, and feels a rather conspicuous absence. 

He shoots to his feet so fast the chair goes skittering halfway across the room. 

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam complains from where he’s landed on the floor. 

“Can’t really fuck you right now, Sammy,” Dean says through gritted teeth. He can still taste the kiss on his lips and tongue, and he swallows convulsively.

Sam’s expression shifts instantly from annoyed to something so tender Dean has to close his eyes, as if looking at it too long might be dangerous. 

“I know,” he hears Sam say, voice gentle. “Dean—”

But Dean slams the bathroom door between them before he can hear any more. 

#

In the bathroom, he turns on the shower, steps into the stall, and then stands there somewhat at a loss, because apparently being junkless isn’t proof against blue balls, which is really just fucking _cruel_.

#

Sam is waiting when Dean emerges, but Dean doesn’t give him a chance to say anything, just marches straight outside, climbs into the Impala, and pulls up in front of the first bar he sees. It’s late, and a weeknight, so there’s nobody inside but a curvy blonde bartender, who takes one look at him and fills a glass with the good stuff. 

“What’s got you drinking so late?” she asks him, after he downs his fourth shot in morose silence. 

It takes the words a minute to filter through the alcohol sloshing in his brain, and then he has to figure out how to answer. “I lost someone,” he says finally. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says the bartender, and she genuinely does sound sorry. “Was it a friend?” 

“Yeah,” says Dean. He starts to nod, but stops when it makes the ground spin. “A friend. A really, really, really good friend.” 

He hears the splash of another drink being poured, reaches out blindly for it, knocks it back. He’s numb enough by now that he barely feels the burn. 

“Must be hard,” says the bartender, leaning towards him across the counter. Dean’s sure he would be getting an excellent view of her tits if he could see straight.  

Dean snorts. “I wish,” he mutters. 

“What?” 

“Uh, yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, it is. Hard.” He clamps his lips together, not sure if he’s about to laugh or cry. 

The bartender makes a sympathetic noise and pours him another shot. 

“What was your friend’s name?”

Dean can’t keep the laughter in any longer. “Well,” he gasps through the sniggers, “I guess you could call him _Little_ —” 

“Dean,” says another voice, behind him, and a heavy hand falls on his shoulder. “Time to go.” 

“Go _away,_ Sam,” Dean whines. “I’m telling her about my dick.” 

“Poor woman,” says Sam. He pulls Dean’s arm over his shoulders and gives a heave, and Dean loses track of things for a moment while he struggles not to puke. Then there’s a blast of cool, fresh air on his face, the clink of car keys, the familiar creak of the Impala’s door opening, and he lets himself fall face-first across the backseat.  

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he mumbles into the leather, as Sam slides into the front seat and starts the car. “Can’t have sex, can’t even jerk off. Have to pee _sitting down._ ” 

“Bet you’d feel better if you let me fuck you,” Sam says. 

“Nope,” Dean says. “Nope, not happening.” 

“Why not?” says Sam, and Dean’s not quite drunk enough to miss the edge in his voice. “Afraid it’ll make you a girl? I think Chastity already took care of that, dude.” 

Dean twists around on the seat so he can glare in Sam’s direction. “Even without balls I’m still less of a girl than you, _Samantha_.” 

Sam’s eyes glint at him in the rearview mirror. “You pee sitting down.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, so he subsides back into the seat, and for a while everything’s quiet except for the growl of the car engine. 

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam says eventually, in a much softer tone this time. “Why don’t you want me to fuck you?” 

“Sammy,” Dean says, but Sam keeps talking. 

“Is it me? Am I just not good enough, or something?” 

“It’s not that,” Dean says. “It’s—” 

But he can’t say what it is, doesn’t know how, probably wouldn’t even if he were sober. All he knows is it’s the one part of himself he has left that Sam hasn’t claimed, and Dean trusts Sam, he really does—in some respects even more than himself—but he doesn't quite trust Sam not to leave someday, and take that final piece with him.

“I just can’t,” Dean finishes lamely. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam mutters. 

#

Dean wakes up with the shrill ringing of a cell phone worming its way into his brain via his eardrums. Sam answers it groggily, listens for a minute. Dean’s almost asleep again when Sam lowers the phone and shakes him. 

“Whazit?” he slurs, opening his eyes unwillingly. 

“It’s Chastity,” says Sam. “She has some terms for you.” 

Dean lurches upright, indignant. “Are you telling me she’s holding my dick for ransom?” 

Sam’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile. “She says you can have it back if we swear to leave her alone.”

“No way. That bitch has been _killing_ people, Sam. I have _principles._ ” 

Sam just looks at him. Dean sighs in defeat. 

#

She makes Dean perform a blood oath—fucking witches—before she gives up a set of coordinates. It’s going to be several hours’ drive from Ipswich, but Dean doesn’t mind; he always thinks better like this, with the world looking monochrome in the pre-dawn light, the Impala the only thing that’s moving—and when Dean glances over at Sam, quiet and pale in the passenger seat, he knows he has a lot to think about. 

He drives until he runs out of road, and then it’s another hour’s hike through a dense pine forest before they reach the spot. At first, Dean doesn’t see anything but pine needles, but then he looks up and spots a bird’s nest perched in the boughs of one of the taller pines.

The nest, Dean finds when he climbs up high enough to peer over the edge, contains quite an impressive collection of disembodied cocks. The one Dean recognizes as his own rears its head up at him, like an excited dog greeting its owner.

“Happy to see me?” Dean asks, picking it up gingerly. 

It wiggles in his hand. He takes that as a yes.

#

Dean forces himself to wait until they’ve made it back to the car, found a place to stay for the night, and they’ve both showered changed out of their pine-sap-sticky clothes. It takes some serious self-control—not one of Dean’s greatest talents—but he’s decided what he wants to do, and he wants to do it right. So he waits. 

Sam’s a little stiff with him at first, but Dean coaxes him down onto the bed with soft kisses, trailing his mouth over the hard-bunched muscles in Sam’s neck and shoulders until he finally relaxes. Then Dean pushes himself up a little so he can see Sam’s face. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Mm,” Sam answers. His eyes are closed, cheeks flushed. 

“Good,” says Dean, and he throws his weight to the side, rolling them over until he’s on his back with Sam straddling him. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, confused, steadying himself with his hands on Dean’s shoulders. 

Dean takes a breath, settles his palms on Sam’s thighs. “Thought you could top for once,” he says. 

Sam blinks rapidly a few times, and then he leans down and kisses Dean, hard. “Really?” he whispers against Dean’s mouth. 

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean breathes, and to prove it he thrusts his hips upward. “Yeah.” 

But Sam pulls away, and Dean finds himself rolling once more, until Sam is under him again. 

“Maybe next time,” Sam says, and grins. “You know, I missed Little Dean, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the lore about medieval witches keeping male members as pets is a real thing that really exists. It’s from the Malleus Maleficarum, and it's part of what spawned this fic.


End file.
